Hold On to Nothing
by fairwinds09
Summary: Every time she breaks his heart, Logan turns the radio dial to the only country station in Neptune and listens for three days straight.
1. Whiskey Lullaby

A/N: This is (hopefully) going to be a multi-chapter fic from Logan's POV, built around country songs that deal with loss and heartbreak. (I realize that this may not be the first thing that comes to mind when one pictures Logan Echolls, but there is a method to the madness.) After all, sometimes it's the unfamiliar that reaches deepest when someone's dealing with heartbreak. At any rate, each chapter will focus around a different song and build off its lyrics, so if you're interested in the connections, just check out the chapter title to figure out which song is referenced.

As always, feedback is deeply appreciated. Hope you enjoy. :)

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><p>He hates country music. Always has. Whoever said it was the sound of Americana was fucking insane, in his opinion. But, for whatever reason, every time she breaks his heart (how many times has it been now?) he finds the one country station in Neptune and listens to it for three days straight.<p>

Right now there's some song playing about whiskey and a faithless woman and death at the end of a bottle. It occurs to him that this should be a painful subject, considering his mother's end and all, but at the moment it makes perfect sense. What better reason to drink yourself to death than betrayal by the love of your goddamned life? And it only gets more appropriate when you multiply both loves and betrayal by two. Even Nashville couldn't have come up with something as fucked-up as that.

He chugs whiskey straight from the bottle, cheap stuff from a corner liquor store with dust on the shelves and bars on the windows. He just wants to forget, that's all. Forget Lilly and Veronica and his father and the burden of breathing in and out. Take the easy way out, like his mom, feel the alcohol and pills numb his brain and then let the cold dark water slip over him like an embrace. There are days when he regrets more than anything the decision to _not_ jump off her bridge. It's such a missed opportunity for poetic justice, he muses.

….

It's the beginning of senior year, and he knows Duncan is worried about him. He catches the sideways looks, the crinkle between DK's eyebrows, and he almost wants to laugh out loud with the sheer idiocy of it. Of course Duncan doesn't say anything. How could he? But sometimes when the concerned glances have become a little much, he likes to imagine how exactly that conversation would go. _Logan, man, might want to lay off the whiskey a bit there. Looking a little worse for the wear. Not that you'd have any reason to drown your sorrows. Certainly would have nothing to do with the fact that your father killed my sister/your girlfriend and almost killed your next girlfriend and generally acted like the sociopathic asshole that he is. And, speaking of girlfriends, did you notice that your ex is currently wrapped around me like a clinging vine? Because I'd like to rub that in your face as much as possible, if that's all good with you. But, all of that aside, don't drink so much anymore, m'kay?_

And then he gets sidelong looks for chuckling dully for no reason at all.

He knows that he's doing a terrible job of acting like he doesn't care about Duncan and Veronica. He tells himself that he doesn't give a damn that the Donut and his (brief) former flame have gotten back together. He tells himself it was always going to happen. He flaunts Kendall—practically waves her like a red flag in Veronica's face, if he's going to be perfectly honest—but not a bit of it changes the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach every time to she comes to their door. He has always reacted to her too intensely, and he can't stop now. Even when he feels their pitying glances, sees the worry in their eyes, he can't make the mask stick.

He's trying too hard, and he knows it. They all do.

…..

One Saturday morning he wakes up, pulls himself groggily from the tangled sheets, and slouches into the bathroom for a shower. It's earlier than he usually wakes up, but for some reason he doesn't feel like his usual weekend tradition of cartoons and Lucky Charms. He just wants to get out, go feel the wind in his hair and the sun on his face, drive down to the beach and walk for a while.

He isn't paying attention when he turns the handle of the bathroom door, and so he's paralyzed with shock when he hears the sound of water running and the murmur of voices. He could have just as easily used the smaller bathroom that adjoins his room, but he likes the luxury of the bigger shower with its strategically placed heads and heated tile. Apparently so do Duncan and Veronica, if the silhouettes behind the frosted glass are to be believed. He's about to turn and go, face flaming, when he hears that breathy little moan that he's only ever heard from her. It stops him dead in his tracks.

_Oh god—they aren't—she can't be_—but she is, and he's frozen there, and he's listening to his best friend and the girl he can't stop loving and he's pretty sure that Dante was right, that the deepest circle of Hell is sheer agonizing cold. There's a lump of ice in his belly and a rising sickness in his throat, and he can't believe that he's standing here and he can't force himself to move. She moans again, a soft sound that she only makes when she's getting close, and the breath he takes is turned to ice, shards that pierce his lungs and close around his chest like a vise. For some reason he only thought she made that sound for him, thought that it was something they shared, never thought that he would stand with his hand on a doorknob and hear her making it for someone else.

And then she cries, "Oh, god, Duncan!" and the ice cracks and he moves, faster than he would have thought possible, sliding backwards out of the doorway and closing the door so quickly and quietly even he can't believe it. He goes back to his room on shaking legs, can't stop the muscles in his belly from trembling like he's had an electric shock. He tells himself fiercely that this is pathetic, he shouldn't care like this, that he should call up Kendall and have a rousing fuckathon that will drown out every noise known to man. But he doesn't, just lays down on the unmade bed and stares at the ceiling until he no longer knows what time it is. He hears the footsteps going towards Duncan's room, hears her laughter a little later, and hates himself for wondering what she thought was funny. He doesn't move until he hears them go out together, hears the soft snick of the door latch closing. Only then does he pad silently out into the living room and head towards the built-in bar.

He opens a bottle of vodka (his mother's drink of choice) and turns up the stereo until the bass is pounding at the walls and he's sure that the residents next door are complaining loudly to the front desk. He drinks his way through the bottle, lets the harsh insistent beat thud through his bones and weave through his brain. It hurts, and he welcomes it.

He doesn't want to hear anything else.


	2. Amarillo By Morning

A/N: Set during Season 2. AUish. References Seasons 1 & 2, if you're still worried about spoilers. (Also, in case anyone is concerned, no, I do not own any of these characters. I play with them and put them back in the box labeled "Rob Thomas" at the end of the day.)

This chapter picks up right where the last one left off. Read, review if you're so inclined, and I sincerely hope you enjoy.

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><p>He starts driving at midnight and doesn't stop for at least four hours, headed straight down the black curves of the highway, headlights picking out just enough of the road to guide him. He doesn't really know where he's going—doesn't really care. It's not until he's forced to stop for gas that he realizes he's crossed over the Arizona state line. He scuffs his foot aimlessly across the gas station's oily pavement and waits for his tank to fill, wondering if Duncan has even noticed that he's gone yet. He doubts it.<p>

He gets back in and keeps driving without much rhyme or reason, making a turn here or there as the fancy takes him. It doesn't make much of a difference when you're only driving to get away.

…

He doesn't want to think about her, swears to himself that he won't, in fact, but of course he does. How could he not? He remembers the road trips with all of them together, the Fab Four lounging in the back of a limo, crammed laughing into his X-Terra. The way that Lilly always called shotgun (and usually got it). He remembers the good-natured bickering, Veronica's laughter from the backseat and Duncan's easy smile in the rearview mirror. He forgets sometimes how good it felt to have people who loved him, who had his back. Everything is fractured now, and the remnants of who they used to be aren't strong enough to withstand the weight of murder and suspicion and hate-filled rage. Honestly, he doesn't know who could withstand it all. Everybody has to crack at some point.

He doesn't want to think about the other drives either, sneaking off to Los Angeles in the middle of a school day with Lilly, slipping off late at night to meet Veronica down at the beach. He misses them both in so many of the same ways. They are nowhere close to the same person—he sees that now, sees how little he really understood Veronica when she lived under the shadow of Lilly Kane. But they were so much alike as well, blonde hair and a quick giggle and torn places inside that they masked far too well. And he has had the misfortune to love them both.

He thinks far too long about those nights at the beach (he doesn't want to remember Los Angeles, not when the thoughts of his father and Lilly are much too fresh), and finds himself in the unenviable position of becoming increasingly aroused in the front seat of his car at 4:30 AM. God, the feel of her, the soft scent of perfume almost lost in the salt sea air, the relief of her body pressed against his. Some nights they'd just curl up on a blanket, her head on his chest, his fingers tangled in her hair. Some nights were spent in the back of his X-Terra, and he groans a little at the thought of the things they'd do, mouths desperate and hands frantically shucking off the clothes between them. For some reason, it was like every night was their last, every touch red-letter. He never knew why.

He shifts a little in the seat, willing the arousal to subside, and tries to focus on the road ahead of him, one long unbroken sweep of dark pavement and yellow lines. He isn't ready to slow down yet.

…

The clerk at the Tonopah Best Western is coolly disinterested as he hands over two plastic room keys and delivers a practiced spiel about continental breakfast from 6:00 to 9:00 AM. He has no doubt seen plenty of bone-weary travelers show up sans luggage in the wee hours of the morning. The room is at the very end of the first floor walkway—plain, nothing like the luxury of The Grand, and he wants it that way. He finds comfort in the idea of scratchy sheets and mass-produced art prints on the walls.

He thinks about relieving his pent-up sexual frustration in the shower, but the memory of Veronica's breathy moans and Duncan's name stops him cold. In the end, he washes off as quickly as possible and climbs into bed naked as a jaybird, shivering under the cool brush of the sheets. He's just exhausted enough to fall asleep without much effort, and he's dead to the world when a sudden strenuous banging at the door wakes him rudely at 5:45 AM. He tries to ignore it, shoves the extra pillow over his ear and tries to go back to sleep, but whoever's out there refuses to let up. Cursing fiercely, he manages to get his jeans on and pull up the zipper halfway before he flings open the door.

He almost slams it shut again out of sheer instinct, but she has enough presence of mind to slap a hand on the metal and gain enough leverage to keep it open. Despite their significant height difference, she somehow manages to look imposing, even in the half-light of the flickering bulbs overhead.

He finally finds his voice. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asks, and he winces inwardly at how groggy he sounds. "And how the fuck did you find me?"

She glares up at him, unrepentant. "I put a tracking device in your car two weeks ago," she informs him. "What are you doing in Tonopah, Arizona?"

He decides to process the fact that she's been technologically stalking him later and grits out, "Getting away."

"From what?"

"Everything. Why should you give a fuck?"

That familiar little line appears between her eyebrows, the one that clearly says _why are you asking stupid questions_. She doesn't say anything, though, just takes advantage of the fact that he's a little off-balance and shoves her way into his room, ducking under his outstretched arm. She flicks on the lamp by his bedside, blinks for a moment and glances around, as if looking for another occupant, and then turns back to him.

"Logan, what in God's name is so appealing here? It's literally in the middle of nowhere. I just drove _through_ the middle of nowhere. I'm pretty sure there was a sign."

His brain is too tired to handle their usual battle of wits, and he glances longingly at his deserted bed. Not twenty-four hours ago she was tearing out his heart right through his ribcage, and now she's standing there snarking about the middle of nowhere, and he just can't handle it right now.

"I don't know—there's no one out here. It's attractive. Can I go back to bed now?"

She pales a little—he can see it, even in the faint light from the bedside lamp—and swallows hard.

"I didn't realize you didn't…that we were…I didn't know you wanted away that badly," she finishes lamely. He hates himself for caring that she's hurt, and hates himself more for wanting to make it better. _You are not supposed to want to comfort the person who is making your life a living hell_, he tells himself sternly. _This is insane. Just fucking stop_.

But he can't, and he drops his eyes and sits down on the bed so he can look studiously at his feet from a slightly closer vantage point.

"It's not you," he lies through his teeth, and he can hear her little intake of breath from three feet away. "I just can't handle Neptune anymore sometimes. It's too much, you know?"

He glances up at her sudden silence, and he sees her nodding, an answering pain flitting across her face. She understands that reason, and he's not going to give her another one.

"I know," she says quietly, and moves a little closer, and he almost jumps out of his skin when he feels her hand, gentle on his bare shoulder. He can't have her touching him, not after what he's been thinking of all those lonely hours on the road, and without thinking he shrugs off her touch. He immediately sees the knee-jerk of surprise and hurt, written across her face, and he reaches out to make better (again).

"Sorry," he mumbles, "you just startled me."

She shakes her head, and he's horrified to see a glimmer in her eyes that wasn't there a moment ago. "I shouldn't have come after you," she whispers. "Duncan doesn't even know I'm here. I shouldn't have followed you."

He does not want to think about why his stomach does a somersault when she tells him that, refuses to acknowledge the spreading warmth through his chest (she came after him when nobody else even bothered to notice, she's been tracking him for weeks, she fucking _cares_), and he reaches out to her with fingers that only tremble a little.

"I'm glad you did," he whispers back, and it's as close as he's going to get to sweet-talking her, because those days died this summer with the crash of a lamp and the smell of gasoline.

She's staring at him, blue eyes wide and newly terrified, and something loosens inside of him that's been coiled and ready since the day she told him they were through. Maybe he can steal back a little of what he's lost since then, he thinks, here in this anonymous hotel room with no one the wiser but the two of them. He knows nothing will change back home—nothing ever changes in Neptune—but for tonight, just for tonight, it can be different.

Slowly, not wanting to spook her, he runs his hands across her shoulders, down her arms, fingers brushing the soft material of her jacket, until he's holding her hands in his. She closes her eyes, as if counting the cost of what she's about to do, and then she threads her fingers through his and takes that last step towards him, and his heart leaps as she opens her eyes again. She's looking straight at him, into him, and he sees all he's been hoping for, everything he saw when she kissed him outside the Camelot—fear and longing and something sweet and surprised and familiar. It's the last little bit of the innocent girl he used to know, and it fills up something inside him that he didn't even know was still missing.

Still slow, still careful, he lets go of one hand and raises his fingers to cup her face, thumb trailing over her cheekbone, and she sighs a little. Before he knows what's happening (he's really trying to go slow here) she has leaned in and taken his mouth, and then nothing is going slowly anymore. It's all teeth and tongues and the taste of old lovers reunited, and he doesn't even realize that her jacket has hit the floor until he feels the bare skin of her arms as she wraps them around him and holds on for dear life.

"God, _Veronica_," he hisses, because she's straddling him and he can feel her heat through two layers of denim, and suddenly those nights in the back of his X-Terra are surging to the forefront of his thoughts in full force. Blindly, he reaches for the hem of her shirt and starts tugging it over her head, and he's hit with a wave of sheer lust when she pushes his hands away and takes it off herself, and then for good measure reaches around and unclasps her bra too. She's so beautiful, all subtle curves and soft skin in the dim lamplight, and for a moment he can't breathe, just wants to look and look so that the memory can never fade away.

"Help me," she murmurs, and he doesn't know what she means until she fumbles with the button of his jeans and frowns a little. He picks her up and plops her back on the bed unceremoniously, undoes his jeans and shoves them off at record speed, and without missing a beat has his mouth on hers and his clever fingers working her jeans down her legs. She's incredibly wet when he slides a hand under her lacy panties, and the little moan she makes in the back of her throat sounds like victory. _Oh, Duncan_ be damned, he thinks viciously as he slips a finger inside of her and feels her hips buck beneath him. He'll do better than that in five seconds flat.

He considers it a personal and well-won victory when he has her coming within two minutes, and the flush of triumph hasn't even begun to fade when she recovers sufficiently to slide her hand over his cock and try to return the favor. He can't let her, though, because just the brush of her hand has him ready to come right _now_, and he has other plans that do not involve embarrassing himself in the midst the one chance he has left. Instead, he rolls to the side to rummage in the pocket of his jeans, hoping against hope that he left a condom in his wallet. He stops abruptly when he feels her hand slide slowly up his back.

"Don't bother," she says simply. "I'm on the Pill."

"Are you sure?" he asks, softly, not certain what this means, a little shocked at how much she's trusting him. They've never done this, partly because he was too afraid to ask, and the fact that she's voluntarily giving him permission makes his chest clench a little.

"Okay," he murmurs, and buries his face in her hair, not wanting her to see the sudden emotion raw in his eyes. After a moment, he kisses her again, consumed by a desire to taste every inch of her, moving down slowly, torturously, until she's panting his name and he's positive that he's driven all thoughts of anyone else straight out of her head. It's not until she's trembling on the edge once more that he shifts upward and slides inside her, gasping at the sensation, and then they're moving together and he forgets everything but the way she feels in his arms.

They peak together, her cry of pleasure driving him over the brink, and as stars burst behind his eyelids and he chokes out a mixture of curses and adoration, he can feel her laughing as she holds him close. When he can breathe again, has rolled off to lie back down beside her, he manages to gasp out, "What the hell was so funny?" She laughs again, quick and light, and he'd almost forgotten exactly how much he's missed that sound.

"The last time we did this, you weren't so…expressive," she explains, and her smile is branded into his collarbone.

"The last time we did this, you woke all the neighbors," he smirks. She smacks him on the chest.

"There weren't any neighbors," she protests. "Any neighbors are—were two blocks away."

The past tense sobers him, makes him remember all the misery of the past few months, and she must see the change on his face, because the laughter leaves her eyes and she raises up on one elbow, her hand stroking his hair.

"It's all right," she murmurs. "It's all right."

He fights the urge to protest that nothing is all right, that this is a stolen moment that cannot possibly last, that she will leave him as soon as the sunlight creeping under the curtains reaches her discarded clothes. But he can't stop himself from wanting anyway.

"Will you come with me?" he asks, not looking at her, not wanting to see the inevitable answer in her eyes. Her fingers stop moving through his hair, and he can feel her entire body freeze. The silence spins out, and his belly begins to tighten.

"Yeah," she whispers, "yeah, I'll come with you," and she lays back down, her head against his chest, and pulls the bedclothes up over them like she's about to go to sleep. He wraps both arms around her, holds her like she'll never go, drops a kiss on the top of her head and feels her snuggle closer to him in response. In a few minutes, he knows she's drifted off, and his eyes close too. He'll take what he can get.

He knows she's lying. When they wake up, the sun high and pitiless in the desert sky, they'll dress in awkward silence, turn around and head back to Neptune and Duncan and their memories of death and vengeance. There is no escape for them, no matter how far they go or how long they stay away. But for now, just these last few moments, he can pretend that they'll drive off together, head towards Santa Fe and El Paso and the sweet orange groves of the Valley. If she wanted he'd take her north, through Amarillo and Tulsa, drive through the wide-open expanses of the prairie until California sun and the ocean breeze were erased in miles of emptiness, nothing left but power lines and the wind. She won't come, and he won't try to make her, but as he falls asleep, he dreams of miles ticking past on the odometer and her hand over his on the gearshift.

…

When he wakes, she is gone, and the sunlight lies in bands of gold across his bed.


End file.
